THE STORY – In summer, Nagisa and Natsuo meet seaside exchanging distant looks and clumsy words in the rainy ocean. In winter, screenwriter Li arrives at a snowy village meeting Benzo at his guesthouse. Despite disconnected talks they embark together.
THE CAST – Shim Eun-kyung, Yuumi Kawai, Mansaku Takada, Shiro Sano & Shinichi Tsutsumi
THE TEAM – Sho Miyake (Director/Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 89 Minutes
Art has always served as a broad canvas that can be utilized for introspective analysis. The manner in which stories present their themes are meant to evoke a provocative examination into how certain subjects may move us. There is another layer to this process when it becomes even more self-reflective. Artistic dissections can turn inward, revealing the true nature of storytelling and what that can inform about not only the audience taking in such creation but the creator as well. The nesting doll encapsulates both the thematic catharsis being mined within the narrative but also about the creative process itself, which can be inherently fascinating. It’s the premise at the heart of “Two Seasons, Two Strangers,” and at its core is a compelling presentation about how an artist’s own longing contributes in creating their own work through a perilous emotional venture. It’s a concept that is alluring, even if the film ultimately struggles to keep it entirely engrossing.
The opening of the film takes place during summer, in which Nagisa (Yuumi Kawai) is visiting a small Japanese town and finds herself wandering aimlessly, seeking any kind of meaningful connection. She finds it in Natuso (Mansaka Takada), a young man who resides there who is also living on his own plane of isolation. The two of them strike up a bond that draws them near, sharing moments of quiet intimacy that propel them further into each other’s orbit. However, their story is merely a fictional work created by a screenwriter, whose tale is quickly played out in the form of a newly completed film by Li (Shim Eun-kyung). Despite this accomplishment, Li is also haunted by her own insecurities, feeling a void in the creative passion that is meant to be driving her work. With winter approaching, she takes her own journey into a snowy resort as a means to refresh her inspirations. After finding most of the lodgings to have no vacancies, she stumbles upon an inn on the outskirts of the town. It is a small venue, run by a stoic man named Benzo (Shinichi Tsutsumi). These two figures both have reserved auras that put them at odds, but they both soon dig into the emotional cores at the center and reveal an insightful truth that is vital for their sense of purpose.
Right away, a tranquil tone is established with this material that sets up a deliberate pace that runs through this story. Director Sho Miyake crafts a poetic and observational atmosphere, one that means to softly note these characters’ interactions in a method that feels non-intrusive. There are no flamboyant instances of kinetic camerawork or frenzied editing. The carefully constructed frames barely move as these individuals sit with their thoughts that mean to wrestle towards an internalized catharsis. It’s the foundation for an engrossing character study, and Miyake’s imagery has an enchanting presentation that is alluring. The open spaces that surround these people, like the open ocean by the two lovers on the beach or the deserted countryside that is covered in snow that Li finds herself in, evoke the emptiness that can be equally distressing and inviting. The filmmaking never makes grand gestures, so much so that even the simple action of a train passing by an apartment window lands with an appreciated gravitas in a manner that is most beguiling. It is quiet, understated work that is meant to push the characterization forward, which is often necessary for an effective examination.
However, the narrative that Miyake creates here can’t help but also be frustrating to explore. Many will celebrate the film’s breezy runtime that clocks in under ninety minutes, but the storytelling does not utilize this brevity effectively. The entire first act of the film is set within this fictional landscape during summertime, and while much can be gleaned from these interactions, it’s hard not to lament a sizeable portion of the film being devoted to a storyline that bears little on the rest of these characters beyond the thematic surface. There are moving exploits to be had in this part, particularly a story that Natuso tells about a corpse found near the rocky shore. His disturbing recollection plays over the crashing waves, inviting the imagination to conjure unsettling images that clash against the serene setting. But the romance between these two young people becomes ponderous to the point of tedium, and when it is revealed their entire interaction is non-existent, it’s hard to feel as if any emotional investment was worth the time.
When the transition to the real world occurs, there’s only about an hour to reset and plunge back into the depths of these new people being properly introduced. One gets a sense of the anxieties that plague Li, struggling to believe in her own creative talents and rushes to turn inward until she meets Benzo. He is similarly closed-off because his family has left him, forcing his already battered emotional state to become even more bitter. There is an allyship that manifests between them, but it happens too quickly to fully believe it is the result of natural progression. Their conversations quickly turn into thematic revelations of character that never feel particularly earned because the work to draw that out from one another is accelerated and, therefore, too abbreviated. The potential for an invigorating exploration is betrayed by a story that doesn’t utilize its brief time productively, which ends up being the ultimate dissatisfaction.
Even with the bifurcated storylines, Shim is the one who takes center stage with an internalized portrayal that still manages to be moving. There is a sea of turmoil that exists beneath a steely facade that barely manages to hold back. The notion of a creative mind being flooded with self-doubt is not a novel personality, but she embodies that characterization with a believable sensibility. It feels like there should be more to Benzo that is not fully showcased, but Tsutsumi’s performance still manages to find both the aggression and tenderness that would convince Li to find some common ground. The two aren’t meant to share the best chemistry, but there is a charm they both share that informs more depth within their performances. As for Kawai and Takada, both carry themselves with a nearly silent tone of introspection, though the former taps into a slightly more extroverted persona. The connection they share also has more internal resonance, and the reservedness displayed is appropriate for their screen presence. It’s not a great impact that either make, but they fit within the larger tonal landscape of the first act, settling nicely within the atmospheric sense they find themselves existing within.
For those who find themselves drawn into the world of pensive character studies, “Two Seasons, Two Strangers” seemingly has a rich tapestry to dive into a world of richly conceived characters. Many of its themes surrounding isolation and creativity are interesting, and if given more time, would have been worthy topics to mine further. Yet, the narrative races by these important details, not allowing enough space to ruminate with these emotions, further undercut by a lopsided structure that doesn’t treat every section of the story with equal weight. The filmmaking can be provocative and the performances are appealing, but the portrait feels incomplete, and the ultimate resolutions become unfulfilling. It’s still an attractive endeavor, but one that misses out on a more impactful vision.
